This small pleasantry restores his equanimity, and he repeats it with approving nods; but it produces little effect upon his wife, who says, '_Will_ you wash your hands and face, father, instead of maudlin?' 'All right, all right, mother! Bring the basin in here, and I'll soon sluice myself.' Mrs. Naldret, going to their bedroom, which is at the back of the parlour, to get the soap and water, calls out softly from that sanctuary, 'Bessie's here, father.' 'Ah,' he says, rubbing his knuckles before the fire. 'Where is she?' 'Up-stairs in George's room. She'll be down presently. She's pretty low in spirits, father.' 'I suppose you've been having a cry together, mother,' By this time Mrs. Naldret has brought in a basin of water and a towel, which she places on a wooden chair, 'I daresay George'll pipe his eye a bit too, when he says good-bye to some of his mates. Ugh! the water is cold!' 'George pipe his eye! Not him! He's a man is George--not one of your crying sort.' 'I don't know about that,' gasps Jim Naldret; 'a man may be crying although you don't see the tears running down his face. Ugh!' There was something apposite to his own condition in this remark, for Jim's eyes were smarting and watering in consequence of the soap getting into them. 'That's true, Jim. Many a one's heart cries when the eyes are dry.' 'I can't get over Mr. Million getting that passage-ticket for George. I can't get over it, mother. It's bothered me ever so much.' 'Well, it's only steerage, Jim, and you can't say that it wasn't kind of Mr. Million.' 'I don't know so much about that, mother.' 'Do you know, Jim,' says Mrs. Naldret, after a pause, during which both seem to be thinking of something that they deem it not prudent or wise to speak about, 'that I've sometimes fancied----' Here the old black cat rubs itself against her ankles, and she stoops to fondle it, which perhaps is the reason why she does not complete the sentence. 'Fancied what, mother? 'That young Mr. Million was fond of Bessie.' 'I shouldn't wonder,' he replies, with a cough. 'Who wouldn't be?' 'Yes; but not in that way.' 'Not in what way, mother?' 'You drive me out of all patience, Jim. As if you couldn't understand--but you men are _so_ blind!' 'And you women are so knowing!' retorts Jim Naldret, in a tone made slightly acid because he is groping about for the towel, and cannot find it. 'Where _is_ the towel, mother? That's Bessie's step, I know. Come and kiss me, my girl.' 'There!' exclaims Bessie, who has just entered the room, standing before him with an air of comical remonstrance, with patches of soapsuds on her nose and face, 'you've made my face all wet.' 'Father never _will_ wash the soap off his skin before he dries it,' says Mrs. Naldret, wiping Bessie's face with her apron. 'Never mind, Bessie,' says Mr. Naldret, rubbing himself hot; 'your face'll stand it better than some I've seen. I can't wash the colour out of your cheeks.'